Musical 365
by SunHoney
Summary: Song-inspired drabbles. Rating will go up soon, as seen fit. Also posted on AO3 (where more smutty excerpts will probably be posted if not here). None of the drabbles are really connected, varies from vague smut to post-RBF. Marked as complete because it's not a continuous story.
1. Better That We Break

"Better That We Break"

John Watson misses Sherlock. He never realized how the simplest things that made up Sherlock could be the things that made 221B perfect: his smell, his sounds at all hours, his coat on its hook. He misses his violin at 3AM and his tantrums and his mouldy, vile experiments. He misses his voice in its random spurts of genius, and it's low rumbling of complaint.

John Watson is finding it harder and harder to wake up, and harder and harder to fall asleep. He can't be at home in his flat; everything is Sherlock. The fireplace is absent of a skull, his leather seat is permanently empty, his room is empty.

John is not fine, and things are not all right. He needs Sherlock to speak to him, at him, anything. John _needs_ Sherlock.

John's therapist thinks he'll get over it, that he's better off this way. Better off independent, safer without a case on his plate and Sherlock over his shoulder. Sometimes John wonders if she's right, and then he's not okay, and his heart burns. John doesn't think he's getting better. He's getting worse everyday. His therapist says that's natural, that is gets better. Sometimes he thinks it might be better to power through it, maybe  
John could have stopped it, he thinks. He could have seen the signs if he had been paying attention and not so caught up in the adrenaline, in everything. If he was as bright as Sherlock, he could have stopped it. He could still be chasing after the brilliant detective; still hearing his voice, his deductions. The therapist thinks he's sick now. That he may need help; she brings Harry into a session. She's scared for John.

Every once in a while, John goes to the top of Bart's and looks out over the city: the view is incredible. John can't tell, his vision is never clear enough to see it. His mind wanders to Sherlock, standing on the ledge and the view disappears, and John goes home.

He's not okay, he admits.  
He never admits he's better off without Sherlock. He isn't. He's hurt without Sherlock, incomplete.

!

Sherlock Holmes sees John sometimes. He's always alone and by himself. He's not himself anymore; no longer a strong and warm companion. He's a fragile, cold shell of what was left of Sherlock's blogger  
Sherlock's life has not gotten easier. He lies low, avoids everyone from his past life, whether they knew him or not. John looks like his life is even rougher. He looks beaten and knocked over. Sherlock is sure he'll get over it, they hadn't even known each other that long.  
Sherlock knows he's not quite right. Neither of them are fine. He wants to hear John call him brilliant.

It's close to sentiment to think like that. Weakness. Sherlock's better without it. The pain is temporary, should be deletable. It's not. Instead it gets more and more lodged into his mind each day. John is etched into the walls of his mind.

Maybe it will fade with more time; sentiment sticks but this is not sentiment. They're better off without each other, two broken pieces that might heal over time, not one fractured whole that is doomed to split.

* * *

My first posted fic since I was, like, 12.

Inspired by it's namesake by Maroon 5. Expect to see more song-inspired drabbles by me, haha.

Enjoy, I suppose!

~Sun H~


	2. Can't Stop (Thinking About You)

Sherlock's mind is consumed by a certain blogger. He lies in his room and paces as his mind races through John, brain looping one clip of John after another. One memory melts into the next and Sherlock falls backwards onto his bed. Each image flashes by so often Sherlock's seeing things that weren't originally there, exaggerating certain details: John's pupils are blown wide here, he licks his lips and looks up at Sherlock through lashes, leans in too close, his breath tic-

Sherlock sleeps even less than usual now. His mind betrays him and conjures improbable- _impossible_ situations and scenarios. He tries hard to counter these fantasies in his many waking hours: tells himself that the tea John makes him means nothing, that his uncharacteristic lack of consideration for personal space with Sherlock is because he's given up on carving out his own spot in the clutter. John adjusting Sherlock's legs so they sit on his lap is really only because he wants to sit on the couch, don't be ridiculous.

He hasn't had a case in days, but he can't seem to care. His mind is running circles around everything John. It's a wonderful distraction (if not annoying), if he's completely honest. But the fact that his entire mind has been turned on his head seems to have slid under John's radar of Important Things to Bring Up, which, given John's need to discuss the most trivial things, is troubling.

John shifts underneath his legs and Sherlock stands abruptly and retreats to his room. John doesn't seem to notice, and Sherlock berates himself for the passing expectation of John to follow him there like everywhere else.

!

John is tangled in coffee colored sheets, grinning up at Sherlock with laughter playing in his eyes. His lips are just slightly swollen, red. The sight makes Sherlock ache and he trails fingers down John's soft stomach and the outside of his thigh. His hands swoops inwards and Sherlock jerks awake, feeling sticky and clinging to a pillow. He lets out a long groan and rolls off his bed and stumbles to the bathroom. His head is swimming with the dream John, reality melting into some alternate version.

He closes the door too loud, and John's at the bathroom door in record time, knocking tentatively and calling for Sherlock, asking if he's all right. Sherlock growls a response, and John wavers by the clouded glass, his silhouette's hand hovers by the doorknob. Sherlock wishes he'd go ahead and open in it, he blames the hope on his still slumbering mind.

!

John brings someone home- another girl, slight, pretty enough, dark hair, taller than John; can't be bothered to remember her name, she's seeing someone anyway- and Sherlock doesn't think about what it would be like to have that warm blue gaze on him like _that._

Sherlock scurries off to his room and imagines he does.

He tickles himself down his ribs once before going over them a again with a firmer touch. He keeps a steady pressure and pulls his hand back up over his clothed chest, around his neck. He drags a hand through his hair and tugs. If he imagines the pads of his fingers are sun-kissed, not his, and a little smaller it's no one's business but his own.

He shuts his eyes and forces his hands away from himself, rolls onto his side and thinks.

Sometimes he contemplates telling John, but the thought is quickly ushered away. It would only make things messy to show just how far John has invaded his brain. He supposes.

!

Sherlock thinks that John knows. John's staring at him, appraising him. He looks as though he's going to say something, but doesn't.

Sherlock does.

"Finally. Have you actually noticed, John? That you've taken over my mind? Quite a feat, that, I must admit." Sherlock stands, each word letting a little piece of John out of his cluttered head. "You've figured out that you infiltrate my very few hours of sleep- very rude, actually- and-"

"You're an oblivious wanker. aren't you?"

Sherlock whirls on John and manages to see a glimpse of the smirk on John's lips before they're crushed against his own.

* * *

Woops no excuse.

This wasn't very good, I'll admit to that, but I'll be too busy later to really do anything with it, so sorry!

Tomorrow I'm very not-busy, though, so expect better!


	3. Chapter 3

They tumble into mocha sheets, connected at the lips. A slight oomph from John separates them and Sherlock attaches his mouth to John's throat. Warmth radiates from where John paws at him over his clothing, his hands brushing up his arms and pushing at his shoulders lightly before framing Sherlock's face and bringing it back up to his. Long, lightly calloused fingers make their way under a long sleeved tee and over a soft stomach. Another imagined sticky note is stuck haphazardly to a nonexistent wall in his mind palace, later to be filed away in it's proper place with the rest of John; if it survives the fire Sherlock's brain seems to be swept up in.

Sherlock finds he doesn't particularly _care_ about the heat in his head as John's very real heat is right here, plucking at buttons. Nimble fingers pull from the warmth of John's stomach and pop the buttons open quickly, and Sherlock shrugs off his shirt. Feeling at a disadvantage he pulls John's up over his head as well. They pull apart and admire the other silently until "_God_." And they're on each other again.

Sherlock's hands move over John, feeling every inch of his torso. He saves the scar for last, looks to John for approval before touching it. When John nods everything but Sherlock's fingers stop. He maintains eye contact until John looks away and then he bends to the scar, leaves a kiss in the center of it and lets it be. He moves his hands up through John's hair and is flipped on his back. Deep blue eyes wander about his face and John's mouth quirks.

"My turn, Sherlock, s'only fair." Sherlock is the one to hesitate this time. He blinks away the small amount of dizziness and smirks, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling his hands back, laying them on either side of his head.

John does with his mouth what Sherlock had done with his hands; he plants kisses after kiss over the plane of Sherlock's stomach. John licks the slight between Sherlock's ribs, where his solar plexus lies beneath his skin. He finishes with a suck on the hollow of Sherlock's throat, cut off by a suddenly moving Sherlock.

Next thing he knows, John is pinned to the bed, on his stomach and Sherlock is tonguing the exit wound on his shoulder and placing sloppy kisses on the outward ebbing.

"Christ Sherlock, my shoulder is going to-" He breathes out a shuddering sigh as Sherlock pins his arms under one hand and uses the other to reach around John. Sherlock unbuttons John's button on his trouser. Their position makes John's trousers tight and the zipper can't hold: it unzips itself. Sherlock tugs on the waistband and pulls the trousers down over John's arse, leaving it and his pants sticking up in the air.

"This is ridiculous, let go of my arms. Sherlock, really."

Sherlock holds them for a second longer, surveying the man beneath him before he complies. John turns back on to his back, seeming to purposefully nudge Sherlock's erection with a knee as he does so. Their faces are flushed, and the tinge brings out phantom freckles on Sherlock's face. John smiles up at him, but levels him with a look that has Sherlock moving from his lap.

"Sherlock, are we actually doing this?"

Sherlock breathes in deep and closes his eyes for a moment, before he starts in on a speech he'd been running over through his head for minutes now, knowing this was coming.

"I would like it to, if you would. And don't ask me if I'm sure, I'm always sure. I've never done anything I wasn't sure of, and despite you being able to change so much about me and my life, I really highly doubt you could change that about me, especially when it comes to this. If you think that I'm just saying that, don't I never just _say_ things. And yes, I have done this before, really John. Don't be ridiculous and _don't_ listen to Mycroft. He knows nearly nothing intimate about me. Don't go thinking I'm just saying it's all fine because we're here now and I'm some eager little _virgin_." His head pulls back as he scoffs. "That's ludicrous. Besides, you said, in the beginning, that it was fine. That it was all fine."

"Sher-"

"Isn't it fine John? If not it's fine, I can go back out into the living room and you can have a shower and we can wank ourselves off and pretend this never happened. I suppose that's fine too. Not preferable, of course, but still fine. But this- if we did this that would be good. For me I suppose. Knowing you you'd think that you'd have to start doing things together, and talking about our feelings." He wrinkled his nose. "You think that our entire dynamic would change, and that if we ever stopped one of us would leave and we couldn't be around each other anymore because-"

"Sherlock."

"-we would hate each other but, to be-"

"_Sherlock."_

"-completely honest, I could never hate you, John."

And then they're staring at each other and the room is quiet but for the pitter patter of rain on the window that neither of them noticed (or, in one's case, acknowledged) until now.

Sherlock isn't deterred by John's silence, doesn't move to get up. He waits for John's okay, his go ahead.

A millennium passes before John speaks. When he does, he's grinning mischievously at Sherlock, and the detective finds he likes the look on John. "You're sure?" Sherlock growls and lunges for him, pinning him to the bed by his shoulders and ravaging his mouth. John laughs into the kiss and pulls Sherlock's trousers pants down as far as he can- about mid thigh. He feels the tip of Sherlock's cock brush against his thigh and both breathe in sharply. John is brushed away as he tries to wrap a hand around it as Sherlock rids John of the rest of his clothing as well. After a brief struggle with one trouser leg going over a foot, they're flush against each other. They grind their hips together, rubbing themselves on the other's stomach. They aren't kissing but their lips brush every so often as they breathe the shared, hot air. John's hand is curled in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock is braced on his forearms.

When John reaches his free hand down to wrap it as best as he can around both their pricks, Sherlock mumbles something and John blindly nods in return. His pace is already erratic when he starts; quick and sloppy, painful for a moment before Sherlock shifts. Sherlock's still mumbling unintelligibly into John's ear and John's still nodding when John comes and his pace slows. Sherlock wraps his hand around John and helps to finish himself off, mumbles turning into gasps until it elevates into a groan of _yesjohn! a_nd he collapses, sticky slick stomachs pressed together.

They know they shouldn't and that it will be worse to clean in the morning, but when Sherlock rolls onto his side, right up against John they fall asleep.

!

When John wakes up the next morning, he's not alone for the first time in years and he grins at Sherlock who's tracing patterns (a map of the world? The streets of London? A chemical compound?) on the goose fleshed skin of his back. Sherlock looks to them with a hint of a smile playing on his lips and John kisses him.

* * *

Woops I'm shite

I'm only two chapters in and I'm already off schedule. Yikes.

THIS ONE IS LONG THOUGH SO IT COUNTS AS TWO DAYS

because I said so

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, never really written anything like this before (as you can tell) and if you have any pointers or suggestions, or if you caught something I missed in my brief little skim before posting, just lemme know


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